


this is the truth, the whole truth (and nothing but the truth)

by pseudoanalytics



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Action & Romance, Fluff and Humor, Knives, M/M, Serial Killers, Violence, think: romcom but connor is still a murder machine, this is basically an obvious Mr. Right au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 14:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16599272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/pseuds/pseudoanalytics
Summary: The blade of the knife catches the kitchen light, sparkling. "Come on. Catch this, Hank."Hank Anderson may be kiss-addled and falling for this android, but he's no fool. "Fuck no. Put that down.""Hank. Please.Please." Those eyelashes bat again, fanning across soft cheeks. Do androids even need to blink? "Don't you trust me?"Maybe he's a bit of a fool.Hank sighs. "Fine. But if this stabs me, you're paying the hospital bills."





	this is the truth, the whole truth (and nothing but the truth)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Northisnotup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/gifts).



> thank you ao3 user zawehzaweh for being an incredible beta when i contacted you at like, 5 am, completely delirious
> 
> and happy bday to north! sorry this is late, but hopefully you can forgive me. thanks for all the rabbit streams and au discussion and for being a great beta too (even though i couldn't ask you to help me with this one)

[The following is an excerpt from 13-37213 ALLEN V. UNITED STATES]

[This document is only a partial abbreviation, a fact that should be considered when quotes are used without context.]

 

> THE COURT: "And you hereby swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
> 
> WITNESS: "That I do, your Honor."
> 
> THE COURT: "Proceed. State your name for the court reporter, please."
> 
> WITNESS: "Allen. Agent Zachary Allen, CIA." 
> 
> THE COURT: "Very well, Agent Allen. Why don't you tell us everything you know about this case."
> 
> ALLEN: "I know that they're very dangerous. Individually? Practically unstoppable."
> 
> THE COURT: "And together?"
> 
> ALLEN: "You could send every SEAL, every Delta Force— hell, any special ops you wanted. You don't stand a chance."
> 
> THE COURT: "Are you saying that a team of a hundred, professionally-trained soldiers couldn't take down a fifty-three year old civilian and a piece of plastic?"
> 
> ALLEN: "I'm saying that if you send that team, you'll get back a hundred fatalities, no kills."
> 
> THE COURT: "Hmm. The court remains skeptical. Let's talk about the hotel. Eight months ago. Was this a CIA-mandated mission?"
> 
> ALLEN: "I'm not sure I'm at liberty to say, your Honor."
> 
> THE COURT: "Remind the court again why you stayed in the helicopter."
> 
> ALLEN: "I didn't want to die." 
> 
> THE COURT: "So you forfeited the mission?"
> 
> ALLEN: "In a way."
> 
> THE COURT: "In what way were you _not_ forfeiting the mission, Agent Allen?"
> 
> ALLEN: "I realized that I was surrounded by cocky, untrained amateurs. I wasn't going to get killed and lose all the progress made on this case just because everyone only saw fit to provide me with rookies." 
> 
> THE COURT: "Those _rookies_ were members of the highest ranked S.W.A.T. available to you."
> 
> ALLEN: "Yes, and they're all dead."
> 
> THE COURT: "You're still saying one man did this."
> 
> ALLEN: "Not a man. A machine. You haven't seen him in action. He can shoot ten men in the time it takes you to blink. He avoids bullets like he's playing dodgeball at a retirement home. By the time you see him, you're already dead."
> 
> THE COURT: "And yet you claim to have caught him on security camera?"
> 
> ALLEN: "An ATM across the street. Got a shot of him as he was leaving."
> 
> THE COURT: "Present evidence Exhibit III, please. Thank you. Now, Agent Allen, you say this is him? How can you tell? The image is too grainy and far away." 
> 
> ALLEN: "Well, you can clearly see it's him. He's wearing the clown nose."
> 
> THE COURT: "Sorry, the what?"
> 
> ALLEN: "The clown nose. You know, the nose he puts on before he pretends to pull a coin out from behind your ear and then shoots you dead."
> 
> THE COURT: "I'm afraid you've lost me, Agent. I'm afraid you've completely lost me."

 

* * *

 

"It's not your fault," Fowler says, yet again, for the fortieth time in nearly as many minutes. "None of this is on you." 

"Christ, Jeffrey," Hank slurs into glass of whiskey. "So you keep saying."

"And I'll keep saying it until you believe it. What he did is what he did. He's the cheater; not you."

"He got tired of me. This is why m' ex-wife left too," Hank groans miserably.

"No, she left because you were more married to your work than you were to her."

"'S' important work."

"Of course it was."

"She thought I was boring… Said I had… had no… 'sense of adventure.'" Hank fumbles the glass and it falls next to him on the couch, fortunately empty except for ice. 

With immense patience, Fowler scoops it back inside before it can melt, setting the tumbler loudly and resolutely on the coffee table in front of them. "We've rehashed this a million times. Shut up and eat your fucking ice cream. God knows I hate that flavor, so no one else is gonna finish it."

Hank spoons a huge helping into his mouth, wiping the drips of pastel green from his beard with his arm. "'m a police officer. Or _was_ ," he says with his mouth still full. "Plenty of adventure there."

Fowler doesn't know what to say, so he settles for rubbing Hank's back with one hand and reaching for the roll of paper towels with the other. He's ready for cleanup when needed, watching a glop of mint chip start to slide down Hank's arm toward his elbow.

"Isn't that your second carton?" Fowler asks, trying to change the subject.

Hank belches.

"Third. Hey, by the way, where's your bathroom? I'm lactose-intolerant."

 

* * *

 

> THE COURT: "Do you know why you were called to testify?"
> 
> ALLEN: "I'm the person who knows him best, besides his partner of course."
> 
> THE COURT: "So you know him well?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Did. Not so sure about now."
> 
> THE COURT: "Mmhm. Care to elaborate on how well and why you know such a supposedly dangerous character?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Yes, of course. You see, I first met _him_ a long time ago, under different circumstances. CIA business. But nothing special or top secret. Sometimes the humblest beginnings, the simplest interactions, lead to the most dire of situations."

 

* * *

 

 

Jeffrey is a good friend. He's letting Hank crash at his place since his latest partner has just thrown him out. Or maybe Hank threw himself out after seeing what he saw. Either way, he's homeless and appreciates Jeffrey's help.

Jeffrey is a _great_ friend, because he lets Hank visit him at the animal shelter he manages finances for, and even encourages Hank to pick a pet out. Says it's to keep him company or whatever. So Hank picks a St. Bernard, older like him, and doesn't even care that it slobbers all over him, despite Jeffrey's warnings.

But Jeffrey is also a terrible friend, because he refuses to buy Hank any painkillers or Lactaid. He tells him it's in his best interest to get out of the house more, like Hank isn't already nursing a massive headache and terrible stomach ache from his new steady diet of alcohol and dairy products. 

He grumbles his whole way to the corner store, wondering how his day could get any worse.

The lady working the counter seems to know exactly what's going on with him. She watches Hank grab two more cartons of ice cream, and then her eyes narrow when he reaches for a box of Lactaid from the pharmaceutical end cap. Something about that puts him on edge.

He's old; he normally doesn't care what people think about him anymore, but something about that smug set to her jaw… He can't stand it.

Hank very clearly walks to the condom aisle and starts rifling through the largest sizes. This oughta teach her. He can't be _that_ pathetic if he's going to eat ice cream _and_ get laid. And he won't even have a stomach ache afterward.

The thoughts distract him just enough and one of the tubs under his arm slips slightly. Hank jerks to the side to catch it, and in the process, pulls the whole display case of condoms down.

Almost twenty-five boxes of Trojans fall, like they're a present from Greece and Hank is the particularly gullible city letting them in without question, and the lowest tub of ice cream slips free as well. He's almost accepted the fact that yes, there will be a huge, embarrassing mess at his feet, when time seems to slow down, and a young man steps around the corner.

He reaches out, almost casually, catching box after box of Magnum XLs, while also kicking one foot forward to bounce Hank's carton up like a weightless hacky-sack.

Time snaps back into focus, and the man stands there, condoms stacked perfectly in one hand and ice cream in the other.

The cardboard isn't even dented.

"How the fuck…" Hank starts, before trailing off.

"You dropped something," the man says. Then he winks.

Hank almost loses his grip on the other tub.

"Here you go," the stranger continues. He sets the condom boxes on the countertop and takes everything from Hank's arms to set next to them. After a moment of consideration, he throws a box of Swedish Fish into the pile too. "I'll pay," he says. "And I'll buy a bag for…" He trails off, waiting expectantly.

"Hank."

The man's eyes soften. "Hank. I'll buy a bag for Hank, please."

The cashier looks a little confused, understandably, since now it looks like Hank is letting this guy buy him more condoms than he'll ever use in the rest of his life, but she dutifully rings them up and shoves everything into a plastic sack until it's almost misshapen with the stretch.

"Thank you," says the stranger. He pulls out the Swedish Fish and nods toward the door, looking at Hank. "Are you free right now?"

Hank chalks it up to confusion and the total unreality of the last five minutes that he even bothers to croak out a "yes."

They end up walking to the nearby park. The man is holding the plastic sack, swinging his arms like he isn't even afraid the thin membrane will tear and scatter compromising purchases everywhere.

"Where are we going?" asks Hank.

"The pond."

"Oh. Okay."

Hank studies him as they go. His eyes are bright and thin, like he's grinning broadly, yet his mouth is deceptively flat. Borderline unemotive. His face is covered in small moles, peppering the planes of his cheeks in an attractive manner, and there's a single lock of hair taunting Hank by flopping softly over his forehead.

And yet, despite all indications saying he should be attractive, there's something making Hank feel mildly uneasy about him. Something not quite right. He _was_ a police lieutenant. The youngest to be promoted. Hank trusts his instincts.

But boy is it hard to feel on edge when the stranger tears open his Swedish Fish with his teeth, then crouches down by the pond side and starts dropping them in, one by one. He turns and sees Hank looking at him quizzically.

"What?" he asks. "Are you saying you saw this box of fish at the store and didn't immediately want to set them free?"

Now Hank _knows_ his face is screaming confusion, but he's also fighting down a smile, his first one in a while. "Set them free? They're candy."

"They're fish," says Odd-White-and-Creepy.

"You're so fucking weird," Hank finally snorts. "Why'd I follow you out here again?"

"I don't know! It's really unsafe. You shouldn't just walk off with strangers."

"I'm fifty-three. I think I can take care of myself."

"Well, you never know! Maybe this was all an elaborate ruse to get you alone and kill you!"

"Right, because I'm so sure you're a regular killing machine."

The man's mouth actually tips into a bit of a smile. It's awkward, unpracticed, but somehow still real and sunny. "Oh, I am! It's my job, and I'm great at it."

Now Hank is smiling too, probably also lopsided. "Oh, yeah?" 

"Yep. I killed three men just this morning. I wouldn't be surprised if they had a hit on me now!"

"God, you're something else."

The stranger stands up suddenly, pulling Hank to his feet as well with a speed that makes his shoulder pop. "Do you dance?" the man asks, and Hank has no time to deny it before he leads them both in a couple turns, quick and precise. He finishes them off by dipping Hank back with a strength that should be impossible for his slender frame.

"Let's go somewhere else," the man says, "before they shred the bag and you have to carry all your condoms home."

Hank is about to say that he doesn't _need_ all those condoms, but then the man is walking swiftly away, beckoning with one hand, and he can't help but follow.

He has no clue who _they_ are, but he also can't help but notice one handle has a small, clean hole in it that wasn't there before.

 

* * *

 

> THE COURT: "Agent Allen, what do you know about the deceased in Exhibits XI and XII? The crime scene photographs."
> 
> ALLEN: "Ah, yes. They're cousins."
> 
> THE COURT: "Can you identify them?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Yes, uh… The top one? Exhibit XI? That's Elijah Kamski. He basically runs the ring. Or I guess, he _did._ Passed down to him by his father, who followed his uncle, who followed his grandfather. Real hereditary thing. Runs in the family."
> 
> THE COURT: "And Exhibit XII?"
> 
> ALLEN: "I was getting to that. Typically, the leadership role is handed down to the oldest eligible, but Kamski got it first. That bottom photo is Gavin Reed, his older cousin. Passed over by uncle so the family genius could take over."
> 
> THE COURT: "Kamski."
> 
> ALLEN: "Right."
> 
> THE COURT: "So, no love lost there?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Considering the whole reason _you-know-who_ was there was because Reed hired him to take Kamski out? I'd say not."
> 
> THE COURT: " _Reed_ hired him?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Yes, your Honor. With Kamski gone, possession of the red ice ring would've gone to Reed."
> 
> THE COURT: "And we have evidence of this? That he wanted his relation dead?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Of course. But come on, we all know sometimes family is who you hate the most while at the same time you fall in love with total strangers."

 

* * *

 

"Dinner tomorrow? Seven thirty?" the man had asked as he left Hank at Fowler's doorstep.

"The hell? Dinner?"

That wobbly attempt at a smile was back. "It _is_ a date, if that's what you're wondering."

Hank didn't move. Couldn't breathe.

The smile fell. "Apologies. Was that too forward? I'm sorry, I… I miscalculated. I should go."

Nothing went right for Hank Anderson. It just wasn't how the world worked. And he knew what he looked like and how old he was. Hell, he knew what his personality was like too. This man could do so much better, with his wide brown eyes and mouth that never seemed to shut.

But sometimes you just couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

"I'm in," Hank said. "For dinner."

And the way the stranger's eyes lit up had made the completely melted ice cream and soggy condom and Lactaid boxes all worth it.

But of course, as great as it had sounded last night, Hank is incredibly nervous now. Fowler has to talk him out of changing clothes for the fourth time, insisting helpfully that "the next outfit will be just a ugly as this one, so you might as well embrace that at least your face will look handsome in comparison to that horrible button-up," which, frankly, is exactly why Jeffrey is his best friend.

The doorbell rings at exactly 7:30. Hank swears. "Jesus, is the kid here already?"

That gives Fowler some pause. "Kid? Hank, when you said he 'wasn't quite your age,' how young did you mean? Early forties? I thought you meant early forties."

"Early to mid thirties, and shut the fuck up. I don't wanna hear it."

"Thirties…" Fowler holds his hands up like he's absolving himself of the whole thing. "I'm not judging."

"Yeah. You better not."

Hank opens the door, and the man steps in. He looks younger than the day before, what with the way the hallway lighting plays over his features and the way his face opens up when he sees Hank.

For a long moment, Hank can see the disbelief on Jeffrey's face. He's thinking the same thing. _This guy's way out of my league._  

But then they take a closer look.

The stranger is wearing a starched, white dress shirt and a tie with a clip. The gray suit coat he has on over it would look a lot more professional if it actually fit and wasn't so baggy in the shoulders.

He's also wearing jeans. Just normal, dark-blue-almost-black jeans.

He sees Hank's horrible, tacky button-up and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile. "Oh, Hank!" he breathes, honesty and sincerity dripping off his every word. "You look so handsome!"

The expression on Jeffrey's face passes, and he rolls his eyes, waving them off and walking back into the house. This time his face says, _You two fucking deserve each other._

The man opens the door of an autonomous cab for Hank, like chivalry is still a thing and something that should be applied to a guy like him, not that he complains.

"Can't drive?" he asks instead.

"No, I cannot."

"Never bothered to learn?"

His face goes a bit distant. "No. I didn't." 

"Mm." Hank glances away, out the window. He's bad at this. Small talk. He hasn't been on a date in forever. Not since his ex, who he'd started dating as a bit of a rebound after his ex-wife really truly left. Is this man a rebound? Maybe. Possibly. He doesn't feel the same. Hank frowns. "I don't even know your name," he realizes, shocked that he's gotten to what's practically the second date without ever asking.

"I don't like my name," is the odd reply.

"What? So you can call me Hank, but I can't call you anything?"

"Do you need to?"

Hank scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah. I'd like to. Plus I'm just curious why you can't tell me what your name is."

"Because I don't like it." The man tips his head in thought. "Call me Eight."

"Eight? Like the number."

"That's right."

This is the weirdest thing Hank's ever experienced. "Just Eight? Is that a first or last name?"

"It can be whatever you want it to be, Hank."

They sit for a moment, eyes locked. The cab drives rapidly toward downtown Detroit, and snow starts to swirl around them. "I'm using it as your first then. What kind of name is Mr. Eight?"

Eight tips his head again in the other direction. "What kind of name is Hank Anderson?" And well, fuck. Hank doesn't know what to say to that.

They finish the ride in relative silence, though it never gets awkward since Eight is just smiling at Hank the whole time.

"Let me get the door for you!" he says when they pull up. The autonomous cab opens it automatically, but Eight beams like he's the one who's done it all the same. It makes Hank laugh, a kind of chuckle that sits deep in his chest. He doesn't use that one often anymore, but this man can get it out of him fairly regularly.

The restaurant itself is a dim sort of place. The lighting is yellow and so soft that Hank has to squint at the menu to read it.

"You already know what you're ordering?" he asks his date.

"No. I plan to just get whatever you're getting." 

"Cheater," Hank grumbles. "Ordering's the hard part." 

"And I trust you to do an excellent job."

After considerable deliberation, Hank settles on a tri-tip meal that comes with fries and a mini salad, not that he plans to eat the latter. Eight nods agreeably when Hank tells the waiter, and casually says, "And I'll have the same please," with a winning smile that says he clearly has no idea what a lousy cop-out he's taken.

"And drinks?" the waiter asks, and Hank thinks of the number of whiskey bottles he's drained these past few days. Hell, these last few _years_. Almost every day since his wife left, even _with_ his last partner. Depression and alcoholism can sit side by side so easily.

"Uh, no thanks," Hank says. "Been sober for almost thirty-five. I'll take a water." 

The waiter nods, impressed. Hank doesn't explain that he means hours. "Very good, sir. And you?"

Eight smiles; he's probably not fooled. "I'll have a water too."

When the food arrives, Hank digs in immediately, but Eight sits there and spins his knife on his hand, occasionally passing it between his fingers flawlessly.

"You gonna eat?" asks Hank with his mouth full.

"Mm. How's yours?"

Hank moans appreciatively around his next bite. "Fucking spectacular."

"Good! Good." The man sets his knife down. "Hank? May I ask you a personal question?"

"Uh. Yeah. Sure." They _are_ on a date. Hank figures a couple personal questions ought to be allowed.

"How are you so handsome?" 

It actually makes him choke on his steak. Hank coughs and hacks, trying to clear his esophagus of unchewed meat while also trying to take the glass of water he's being handed. The drink finally soothes his injured throat, and he huffs some air to center himself again. What kinda question… 

"My apologies," Eight says, not sounding very sorry at all. "You must be aware of how you look."

"Yeah, I am," snorts Hank. "And handsome isn't what most people would go with. Old, maybe. Tired, for sure. And I wouldn't disagree with downright ugly."

For the first time, Hank sees the man actually frown. It lowers his eyebrows and creases the corners of his mouth. A real expression, not the wobbly-but-cute excuse for a smile he has.

"You're incredibly handsome, Hank. Anyone should be honored to lay eyes on you."

"Alright. It was cute the first time, but you can drop the pointless flattery."

"I'm serious. I find you immensely attractive. I haven't been able to take my eyes off you since I first noticed you in the corner store."

The problem is, Eight is so terribly sincere about the whole thing. He almost makes Hank feel badly for trying to pass it off as an attempt to butter him up. The look in the man's eyes, the tone of his voice… He means every word he's saying, and Hank is unsure of what to do with that. He hasn't been the object of affection like this in forever. Probably since his ex-wife. Even his ex hadn't been this reverent with him.

"Can't take your eyes off me, eh?" Hank asks dryly, watching Eight's eyes flicker between his face and something else further back. "Then what's behind me that you find so distracting right now?" 

Sheepishly, Eight snaps his gaze away from behind Hank's head. "I'm so sorry. Can you… Can I have a minute real quickly? I'll be… I'll be right back."

"Uh. Go ahead. Take your time." Hank blinks as the man stands up apologetically and heads toward the back door. He shrugs. Maybe he needs a smoke? Hank hasn't smelled any on him, and he doesn't look the type, but maybe he's nervous about this first date too? _Not everything is a mystery,_ he reminds himself. Hank tries his best to shut off the detective part of his brain. He eats his fries and finishes his tri-tip in silence. Eight's plate is right there… The same meal.

Hank glances behind himself at the dark windows and shut door. When his date doesn't immediately reappear, he starts stealing a couple fries.

The pile is half-gone when Eight walks back in. He straightens his tie and coat, using one hand to comb back hair that was already perfectly in place. He doesn't smell like cigarettes.

"Sorry about that," he says calmly. He looks down at his food. "Did you like it?"

Hank grins sheepishly. "Sorry. Should of asked," he says.

"No, no!" Eight smiles as he sits, scraping the rest of his food, both fries and meat, onto Hank's plate. "If you're still hungry, go ahead! I don't need food."

Hank frowns at that and is about to ask when another question comes to mind. "What were you doing out there?"

"What? Oh. I had to kill a guy." Eight smiles. He's incredibly good-looking too, and frankly, Hank is having a hard time looking at that stray curl and not losing his mind.

He shakes his head. "You're funny. If you don't wanna tell me, that's fine too."

"I'm serious. He wouldn't leave me alone. I'm trying to enjoy my date with you, and the only way to get him off my back was to kill him."

Hank decides to play along. "Right, right. Naturally. What'd he want that he couldn't stop pestering you about?"

"He wanted me to kill someone else! And you know I won't do that."

Hank smiles around a mouthful of Eight's steak. "With a face like that? Course not."

"Course not."

They pause again, both smiling now. Hank finishes his second helping of fries.

"Come home with me."

The steak in Hank's mouth almost chokes him a second time at Eight's words. "Mm?!"

"Come home with me." The man glances down at his empty plate. "Am I being too forward? I'm sorry. I'm being too forward." He looks incredibly nervous. Maybe he went out for a cigarette and then talked himself out of it. "This always happens. I try… I really try not to overshare but, I—"

"I'll come," Hank interrupts, and Eight cuts off suddenly. "I'd love to." 

"Great!" He gives another one of his lopsided smiles, and it doesn't fade the entire trip to his home. 

They tumble in the front door laughing at some dumb joke like drunk, lovesick teens and not at all like sober adults on an early date. Hank is laughing harder than he ever can recall, his stomach aching with too much good food and sustained guffaws. Eight is snickering too, and it's only making Hank lose it even more. Eight's eyes are bright with humor, but his mouth still doesn't stretch quite right and his laugh is too loud and emphatic for his only mildly amused face. And Hank likes the weirdo so much that he can't help but find it endearing.

"Your— your face!" he gasps, trying to find the air to speak within his exhausted lungs. "Who taught you to laugh?"

"No one taught me, Hank! This is just how I look!"

"Can I— Can I ask _you_ a personal question?"

Eight nods until Hank worries his head might fall off. "Yes! Anything." 

"Heh. Alright. Who made you look so goofy and gave you that weird voice?"

"Hank! You can't ask someone that!" He almost looks mildly affronted, but then it melts away into a clear joke. "Who made you look like _that?_ "

"Too late! You already called me handsome. I know what you think about me."

The man slips out of his coat and hangs it on a rack with three other identical ones. "You are, Hank! Like I said, I saw you in that store, and I haven't gotten over it since!"

Hank steps out of his shoes, hoping immediately afterward that his feet don't smell too badly. "Yeah, and about that. How'd you do that?" 

"Do what?"

"That thing at the store. With the condoms. They were all in the air and you just kinda…" Hank mimes catching boxes at high-speed.

Eight tips his head smugly. "I'm very good with my hands."

It's the perfect opening for a dirty joke, but Hank also remembers the knife flipping at the restaurant. "You a magician? Cause even the knife…"

"Oh! No, I'm not, but I can uh…" The man produces a coin from his jeans pocket. Then, quick as a wink, he flips it between his fingers, throws it to his other hand, catches and spins it on a fingertip, throws it back.

Hank gapes. "How long did it take you to learn that?"

"I'm a bit of a… natural."

"Wow." Hank stares at him. Really looks hard. "So, what's the catch?"

Eight's face twists in confusion. "What?"

"Come on. A cute guy like you? Somehow attracted to a guy like me? There has to be a catch. This shit doesn't just happen. So, what is it? You into feet? Piss? Can't get off unless someone's playing Mozart?"

"There's…" The man trails off. Great. Something freakier that what Hank's mentioned? He should have known. "I could never lie to you, Hank." Oh no. That's certainly not reassuring.

"But… there might be a slight catch. But I'd hate for it to ruin this." Eight gestures between the two of them. He's not visibly sweating, but he looks like he should be. "I'm an android."

Admittedly, Hank is not a huge fan of androids. They're growing more and more popular in some specialized fields, including the military and hospitals, but it's not like he's ever interacted with any. He never knew they could be like Eight, so… _human._

It's also not nearly as concerning as knowing that the guy might want to fondle his feet or something. It's a pretty good way of revealing it, because Hank is almost relieved that this is the outcome.

"Okay," he says mildly.

Eight looks like he's surprised but trying desperately to hide it. For a guy who can only make two and a half facial expressions, it's a terrible attempt. "Really?"

Hank isn't going to ask the obvious questions, after all, he doesn't even think that was Eight's intention in inviting him over here to begin with. But he does glance down once at his crotch. Hmm. He can't draw any conclusions from that peek, but investigations will have to wait for another time. For now, he focuses on the open sincerity on the man's face as he realizes he isn't getting rejected in his own unfurnished living room.

Oh.

No furniture.

Maybe it's _good_ Hank retired early. The lack of eating, the stilted face and mannerisms, the weird way he talks, picking a number for a name… It all makes sense now.

"You ordered a second steak just to make me eat it," he accuses.

"Guilty," the man snickers.

"You're so lucky I like you."

"I know. I am."

Hank takes a second to reel from that, still caught off-guard by how honest Eight is. He quickly moves on so he doesn't have to dwell on anything too long. Not here. Not now. Later, when he's alone. "Then I guess there's no chance for me to learn that coin trick, huh?"

"Actually," Eight says, "I think you can. My abilities are enhanced, yes, but even other androids can't do what I do."

"And what is it you do?"

"Throw that knife at me, Hank."

"Oka— What?"

Eight points at the steak knife in the block on the kitchen counter. "Throw that at me. It's fine."

_He's an android,_ Hank reminds himself. _And even so, he seems to think he can do something about this. It's fine, he says._

He lifts it out of the block. The edge is razor sharp, to the point where he can practically hear the unsheathing sound as he draws it out. Hank takes a moment to heft it in his hand. Excellent balance. It'll have good spin. "Okay," he concedes nervously. "You ready?" 

"Of course. Any time, Hank." 

He throws it. It's not super hard, even loses a little more altitude than he meant, but it sails directly toward Eight's chest. It feels a little like every time Hank discharged his service weapon. Time slows down and he can just concentrate and watch the blade flip end over end toward the other man. Then, just when it feels like he might end up with accidental manslaughter on his hands, Eight moves.

He pivots on a heel, turning gracefully away like a dancer. He reaches up and snags the blade between his fingers, flipping it around and between them as he continues the spin his momentum is forcing him into. When he stops and time resumes its typical flow, Eight is standing there with the knife in his hand. There's not a scratch on him.

Hank's heart pounds for reasons he doesn't quite understand. This man, no, this _android_ … There's something about him that Hank just can't look away from. Maybe it's his kind, trustworthy face. Or maybe it's his odd sense of humor, and tendency to "free" Swedish Fish. Maybe it's that he flirts by buying over twenty boxes of condoms, or that he buys food just to make Hank eat it. Whatever it is, Hank can't get enough of it.

"Incoming!" he calls, then grabs and throws another knife in one smooth motion.

It flies fast and true toward Eight's forehead, directly between his eyes, but he claps in front of his face and catches it like that, blade safely between his palms. There's not even a scratch on his skin, err… plastic. Hell if Hank knows.

He's not sure what comes over him, but Hank throws another one. And another one. Two, at top speed and the way Eight tracks them in the air with his eyes is intoxicating. Time slows down each and every time to the point where Hank can practically watch the synthetic muscles in his body twitch and attack. Hank watches him blink and can see the way his lashes pat his cheeks and fan across the skin there.

He stares at the glimpse of teeth from the self-satisfied grin when Eight catches both in one hand, between his pinky and ring fingers and his index and middle fingers respectively.

"Got it," Eight says in that weird, kinda throaty, deep but not Hank-deep voice of his.

Hank has to kiss him.

He steps close and finally touches Eight, really touches him. His skin is warm and soft like a human, except maybe not. Maybe it's _too_ warm and _too_ soft. It has give, but underneath is something harder and closer than bone. It lacks the irregular shape but provides similar structure. Hank pulls Eight flush with him, encouraged by how the other man follows his lead.

One of Hank's hands sweeps along the small of his back, and the other cups Eight's jaw to tilt his head up. Those extra inches suddenly seem so much more important.

_Can I kiss you?_ Hank thinks, and then Eight leans in and does it himself. He throws his arms around Hank's broader shoulders, one hand full of knives, and pulls him down into a slight hunch. It's just enough that Eight doesn't have to push up the tiniest bit on his toes, and Hank almost resents that fact. Eight's lips are human as anything. They even feel lightly chapped.

It's infuriating, and Hank just has to bite and tug at the lower one, making Eight puff out a soft breath of air. It fans across Hank's face, and when they finally pull apart, he swears he can still feel it.

"You're different," Eight whispers, eyes half-lidded. "You're like me."

"I'm no android, if that's what you mean."

"No… Just…" With what appears to be superhuman force of will, Eight pulls away. He walks to the knife block himself and pulls one out. "Catch this, Hank," he says.

Hank Anderson may be kiss-addled and falling for this android, but he's no fool. "Fuck no. Put that down."

"Hank. Please. _Please._ " Those eyelashes bat again as Eight blinks. Do androids ever need to blink? "Do you trust me?"

Maybe he's a bit of a fool.

Hank nods. "If this stabs me, you're paying the hospital bills."

"Thank you," Eight breathes, like Hank's agreed to shovel his driveway or retile his bathroom, not allow him to throw a knife at his head. "Are you ready?"

"Aw, fuck." Hank flinches and turns away, lacing his fingers and resting his hands on his head. He prays this man doesn't just toss the knife and bury it into his back. "I can't do this."

"You can!" There are footsteps at his side, and when he turns, Eight is there, oh so close.  "Look at the knife. You can see it, right?"

"Of course I can fucking see it. I can't look away from it."

"Exactly. Perfect." It sounds like Eight is practically whispering in Hank's ear and it's making it very difficult to remember the illogical nature of this discussion, especially since the other man is actually still a couple feet away. "Hank. Watch the knife."

Right. The knife.

He watches Eight move it back and forth in the air. The light glints off the blade, and Hank can see… almost see…

"There you go," Eight hums. "See, it's like I can see its frame. Like a constellation. There's a dot here, at the tip of the knife. And a dot here, and the end of the handle. But here—look, Hank—here is a third dot, where handle meets blade. And its skeleton is the line that connects all three. Like this." He draws a finger down the side, and Hank can almost swear he understands. "When I move the knife, I can see the frame, just like I can see the frames of everything else. Everything in this room." 

"Yeah," Hank grunts. "Because you're an android. You can do that shit."

"No. I said, it's not the same. I _can_ run a program that predicts movements, but it's fallible, and very slow. By the time the calculation is entered, computed, and shared back with me, the knife would be in my chassis. This is different. It isn't an android thing or a human thing. It's just… us."

"'Us.'"

Eight blinks slowly. "Yes. Us." His lips twitch down for a fraction of a second, not sadly, but rather in thought.

"Here, look at our hands." He raises his own, palms up between them, and Hank mirrors his motion a second or two later.

Eight starts to move them in a large slow circle, traveling on a horizontal path and knocking into Hank's until he's forced to join in too. Once he gets the hang of it, Hank moves on his own accord, no longer relying on the android's hands pushing his around. They move like that for a bit. A certain calm starts to fall over them, like there's mood lighting, even though the bright glare of the kitchen LEDs hasn't dimmed in the slightest.

"There you go," Eight murmurs. "You can see it still. On our hands. A frame. The dots at all the joints. The places we have seams and parts that bend. You can see the frame now, and then… you can see it in the future. It's not unlike a current in a circuit. You can see where the electricity is going to flow. Here now; there later. You can _feel_ it."

Hank watches as Eight's hands change the pattern, introducing vertical movement and twisting of the wrist. He joins in at the same time, staring in a mixture of muted shock and calm certainty as he anticipates the new motion flawlessly.

Eight withdraws and uses his hands to turn Hank, just barely peeking over one of Hank's shoulders and brushing his hair aside. Now he really _is_ whispering near Hank's ear, but it sounds even closer. Like he's in Hank's head. Like they're reading each other's minds.

Their hands still move together. Everything is in slow motion. Hank can see and feel the pull. With a quick twitch of his hand, Eight grabs the knife again, introducing it to the pattern. He shushes and calms Hank instinctively, until they can continue moving together.

"Once you really feel it, you can feel in front of it. For collisions. Feel when other things enter the current. Block the flow. Everything is connected, Hank. We're all frames and wires and electricity. Not just androids. All of us. Even inanimate objects. And when you know that…" Eight throws the knife upward. It's a simple toss, a straight shot upward.

Hank sees the knife. He sees the dots and skeleton and he sees the shape of its slight arc. He also sees every bullet he's ever shot, and how he was always the best at the range. Could nail the target ten times out of ten. Had a knack. Great eye. Perfect aim. How he felt like he was cheating because sometimes he swore he could draw a line between the barrel and the bullseye.

The knife reaches the peak of its climb and starts to fall. It comes closer and closer but Hank doesn't move. When Eight catches it out of the air inches from Hank's face it's not a surprise. He could already see where it's path changed. He knew where and when Eight would stop it. 

The surprise catches up a second later.

"Fuck! Shit! Holy— Fuck me!" Hank rips away, jarring Eight's chin as he stumbles away in terror. "Why would you do that? What the fuck were you thinking?"

He feels like he's fourteen again and needs to phone his mom to pick him up from a party gone wrong.

_Fowler? Yeah, remember that guy I went on a date with? We had a nice dinner, but it turns out he's an android and wants to throw knives at me. Also, there's drugs and alcohol and the parents aren't home. Can you come and get me?_

"Hank!" Why in the hell is Eight looking at Hank like _he's_ the irrational one right now? "You can do this. You can catch it."

"No! This is… so fucked up. I need to go. Fucking hell, I don't even know your _name_. I gotta…" Hank stumbles, dazed toward the door, and he's just reached his shoes when he hears his name and turns one last time. "Thanks for tonight, but this is just really too goddamn weird."

Eight doesn't nod, agree, or even warn him. He just lets the blade fly. If Hank had thought they'd been really tossing knives before, he wasn't ready for how fast this one moves. Eight is _not_ fucking around, and the blade whips so quickly it whistles in the air. In his terror, Hank watches time slow down yet again, but now he's paying attention. 

The knife may be zipping, but like this, Hank is in complete control. He sidesteps it with ease and plucks it out of its trajectory as easily as if it had been lying on a table. When he finishes a single blink, he realizes he's just standing there. Holding the handle of a knife that was hurled at his face like it had the intent to kill.

Hank's heart is pounding. His adrenaline is singing. He thinks he might understand what his ex-wife meant about being boring and having no sense of adventure, because after he's felt this, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to go back to normal life. Without a second thought, he throws the knife back at the block, barely in view from his new place by the exit. It spins once, twice, then slides perfectly into its slot with a soft _thunk_ and the whole block scoots back. 

Eight sends each of the ones he's holding back in too, with a few flicks of his wrist.

They stand and stare at one another. Then Eight grins. Like, _really_ grins. It stretches wide and funky and shows almost all of his teeth. His smile lights up the room and almost hurts Hank's eyes, and suddenly he's rushing forward, unable to stop. He's high on the sensation, can still feel the chill of the metal in his hands.

He sees the frame of Eight's face, grabs it in his hands and doesn't let go. Eight is apparently an android. He doesn't need to breathe. And Hank doesn't think his lungs will need air anytime soon either.

  

* * *

 

 

> THE COURT: "And how about Exhibit XXXVII? Do you know the man in this picture?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Uh… It's a little hard to see his face here. He's covered in blood. Is that a knife in his neck?"
> 
> THE COURT: "Do you or do you not recognize the man in question?" 
> 
> ALLEN: "Can't say I do. No. Who is he?"
> 
> THE COURT: "He was found in the back alley alongside the Hyde Park Steakhouse." 
> 
> ALLEN: "Oh, right. Well. No, I don't know him, but I'm guessing we all know who did it?"
> 
> THE COURT: "That's not for us to say quite yet."
> 
> ALLEN: "Mm. Right. But would I be wrong if I suggested he was killed the same night a certain couple dined at that restaurant?"
> 
> THE COURT: "Again. Nothing can be said right now. If you don't recognize him, we can move on." 
> 
> ALLEN: "That's fine, but it figures. With those two, no sooner do you think they're adorable together, when shit suddenly hits the fan. Pardon my language, your Honor."

  

* * *

 

"So, then I thought, why not just eat it anyway? I mean, if the meat is bad, I'll get a stomach ache, but if I don't eat it, I'm hungry and _still_ have a stomach ache."

Eight raises his eyebrows. "So did you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And?"

"It was bad. Really bad. I ended up with E. coli and was in the hospital for three days."

"That's amazing!"

Hank snorts so hard it almost hurts. "Amazing? I was on a saline drip and nearly died of dehydration." 

"And it just makes you that much more attractive." Eight meets his eyes and holds them. "I find the human things about you to be the most fascinating of all."

"So the fact I endured almost fatal diarrhea makes you weak at the knees?"

"I'm an android. My knees don't weaken due to emotional experiences. But it _does_ make me want to kiss you."

They're practically in public, sitting on a bench near a small stream that cuts through the park, but Hank can't believe he's so lucky as to find someone who thinks his rotting-meat-induced bowel movement is hot, so he agrees. They make out until the android's internal fans start whirring, and Hank decides the guy might need some air circulation.

Eight's face is soft and sweet when he pulls back. He has that huge stretchy smile going on again, but this time it's all droopy and relaxed. It just makes it all the more obvious when it vanishes.

"Hey, what's up?" Hank asks, looking behind him for whatever distracted Eight.

There's a man on the pedestrian bridge. His brow is set in a permanent scowl, and he's walking with purpose. Hank watches the way his arm swings. He's definitely carrying.

Eight sighs. "I'm sorry. Just… give me a second again? I have to go take care of something."

"Wait. That man. He's armed."

"I'll be fine, Hank. Please give me a second." The android stands up and walks over, intercepting the man midway across the bridge.

Worried, Hank watches closely. The two of them talk, one angry, the other calm. The man starts gesticulating wildly. He's furious about something. Meanwhile, Eight starts digging in his coat pocket for something. He searches and searches, then straightens happily, brandishing a clown nose. He puts it on and Hank wonders if this is the key. The final piece to the "what does this android do for a living" puzzle. A clown, huh? 

Eight flashes both sides of his hands to the man, as if displaying that they're empty. He reaches out and snaps by his angry partner's ear. When he pulls back, there's a quarter in his hand. Eight raises it up toward the sky to display it better. A clown. All along he's been a clown. No wonder he doesn't want to talk about it. Maybe his name is something clowney too.

Hank and the man stare up at the coin. It's a perfect diversion, distracts and leads the eye.

Then Eight draws a silenced pistol and shoots the man in the heart.

Hank doesn't even think; he just runs.

 

* * *

 

> THE COURT: "Okay. Enough about that. Let's get to the day it all happened. What did you do first?"
> 
> ALLEN: "By then I had already been approached about his latest whereabouts. I was posing as Special Agent Richard Perkins, FBI."
> 
> THE COURT: "An alias?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Yes. I've had many."
> 
> THE COURT: "Go on."
> 
> ALLEN: "I was also aware of the boyfriend, whose address I had access to."
> 
> THE COURT: "And by boyfriend you mean Hank Anderson."
> 
> ALLEN: "That's right. Man used to be a cop. I figured I ought to warn him." 
> 
> THE COURT: "Did you?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Hold on. I'm getting there. I went to his address and found an ex-boyfriend instead. Said Anderson had moved out a couple weeks ago. He had no idea if or who Anderson was dating now. Said he didn't care. According to him, Anderson was a depressed drunk looking for companionship following the dissolution of his marriage. Apparently, this ex-boyfriend wasn't too invested. He kept him around for the 'good sex.' Anderson dumped and left him when he learned he was cheating on him."
> 
> THE COURT: "Who is this ex-boyfriend?"
> 
> ALLEN: "No one important. Didn't even catch his name to be honest. Fifty-seven-year-old civilian. Unconnected. I moved on." 
> 
> THE COURT: "Where was Anderson living in the meantime?"
> 
> ALLEN: "He was staying with his closest friend: Jeffrey Fowler. Accountant for various nonprofits. Works for an animal shelter, neighborhood newspaper, those sorts of things."
> 
> THE COURT: "How does he know Anderson?"
> 
> ALLEN: "They were in the academy together. Fowler left halfway through. No flags on his record, so it must have been by his own will, peacefully. The two stayed in touch, and after the divorce, I think he was all Anderson had left. His other friends were also his ex-wife's, and I assume they sided with her after the split."
> 
> THE COURT: "Any signs of violence?"
> 
> ALLEN: "No. They cited irreconcilable differences. It wasn't until the procedure started that Anderson fell into alcoholism. That drove her away faster and led to a less-than-friendly end product."
> 
> THE COURT: "So, the friend. Fowler."
> 
> ALLEN: "Right. Anderson had moved in with him. A temporary thing. I headed to his house next."
> 
> THE COURT: "Were either of them home?"
> 
> ALLEN: "They both were, as a matter of fact."
> 
> THE COURT: "And what did you tell them?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Everything. I told them _everything._ "

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Hank wishes he had a mini-Jeffrey in his head at all times.

Because Hank had _loved_ his whirlwind romance with Eight. He'd loved feeling the rush of a new relationship and how he'd even briefly felt like he was twenty-five again. He'd loved the adventure, the off-the-wall conversation, the kissing, the knives… He'd been pretty damn sure he'd loved _Eight_.

But now that Jeffrey is laying everything out, yeah, Hank can see all the red flags too.

"So you… you don't even know this guy's name?"

"I call him Eight."

"An alias."

"A nickname!" 

"Hank, it's only a nickname if you're using it in lieu of their _name._ Which, apparently, you don't know! Weren't you a goddamn _cop_?"

Hank runs another hand nervously through his hair. He's trying to pace, but Sumo keeps leaping excitedly up his legs, and he can't help but squat down and pet him. This isn't the dog's fault after all.

The doorbell rings and they all flinch.

"Fuck," Hank swears.

"Is that him? Should we call the police?" 

"I _am_ the police."

"No, you're not. I'm calling."

"Wait, stop! That's not him. Too broad."

"One of his friends then? Don't open that door. Hank. Hank! Don't you dare open— fucking…"

Hank opens the door.

There's a man on the porch with a black crew-cut and chiseled jaw. His eyes say he's on a hunt, and his nostrils flare as he flashes Hank a badge. Special Agent Perkins. FBI.

"Uh, come on in," Hank says awkwardly, even as he's thinking, _Great. It's the fucking Feds._

"Thank you. I'm so sorry to disturb you, but you may be in grave danger. Connor is not a man, or rather android, to be trifled with."

Hank jerks his head to look at Perkins. "Connor? That his name?"

"Yes. Connor is an RK-800. A highly advanced prototype built for special investigative forces. We were both part of a task team once. Out of the country. CIA business. Very hush hush."

From his perch on the couch, Fowler mutters, "Shady fucking CIA bullshit… This just gets better and better."

Perkins either doesn't hear him or just chooses to ignore him. "He went rogue after a mission. Something about him trying to prioritize the life of a young girl when he was instructed otherwise. He left after that. Refused to kill anyone just because someone else told him to."

Fowler snorts at that too. "So he has no morals?"

"Actually, he has them; they're just terribly skewed."

Hank offers nothing to the conversation. He's too busy rolling the name around in his head. Connor. _Connor._ It suited him.

Realizing Hank will be of no help, Perkins continues. "He's decided to become a bit of a reverse hitman. You hire him to kill someone else, he kills you instead. The guy's completely bonkers. But he's good with gun. Or a knife. Or just about anything that can be used as a weapon."

"That makes sense," manages Hank when Jeffrey gives him a particularly potent glare. "Explains the knife thing."

"Knife thing?" ask Perkins and Jeffrey in tandem.

"Yeah, we were uh, throwing knives… and catching them."

"Throwing knives at... each... other?" Jeffrey asks. His voice wavers a little, like he is really, really hoping Hank isn't as dumb as he suspects.

"Yep." Hank hasn't lived up to anyone's expectations in years. Maybe decades.

"Jesus christ…"

"I thought it was a fun date!"

"You could've been hurt!"

"Well, I wasn't!"

"Connor is a serial killer!" Perkins interjects. "He killed for a living, but now, more importantly, he kills for sport. You should not, under _any_ circumstances talk with or interact with this android again."

With a sigh, Hank slumps onto the couch next to Fowler again. "I don't plan to. I saw him shoot a guy at the park. On the pedestrian bridge."

"You saw him shoot a man." Jeffrey rubs his face vigorously with his hand. "Just fucking shoot him. In broad daylight."

"Obviously I wasn't okay with that! I came right back here, didn't I? That shit wasn't alright!"

"Hank, all you are doing is adding to the reasons you can never permanently room with me, and that list already looks like a fucking novel!"

Perkins clears his throat. "Was he wearing the nose?"

Hank answers affirmatively even as Jeffrey asks, "What fucking nose?"

"As I'm sure Hank saw, Connor likes to wear a clown nose when he kills people."

"And he uh, he does this coin-trick thing. Where he pretends to pull it out from behind their ear and flips it through his fingers…"

There's a vein on Jeffrey's forehead that looks like it's about to make a run for it.

Sensing the tension, Perkins gestures with his thumb toward the door. "I'm heading out front, alright? I'll be standing guard in case Connor comes this way looking for you."

They both ignore him. Hank is too busy glaring at Jeffrey, and Jeffrey is too busy chewing him out.

"I'm leaving," Jeffrey finally says. "I'm getting out of here."

"What?"

"Hank. You know I'll always stand by you. And I'm here to support you, but I'm out. I don't want to _die_ , Hank. I'm not going to sit around in here and wait for a serial killer to come knock on my front door. I'm going to a friend's house, and I'm not coming back here until this Connor guy is caught!"

In a haze, Hank watches him pack a small bag and head for the door.

"I hope to god I see you soon, Hank," Jeffrey says, and then it shuts and Hank is alone.

Sumo runs up and sniffs at his knee. At least he still has his dog. And Perkins, he supposes.

The front door swings open again a couple minutes later.

"Forget something?" Hank calls, but Fowler doesn't answer.

Connor walks in, dragging Perkins' body behind him.

"Well, shit," Hank mutters. "Is he… Is he dead?"

"Dead? No. He's fine. Can I put him on your sofa? Thank you." A grunt of exertion. "Do you have a pillow? I don't want him to wake up with a neck ache. Oh! Found one. Perfect."

Hank can't move.

"I'm glad I found you again! Where did you go? I said I'd be right back."

It's now or never. Moment of truth and hope the serial killing android with self-made morals doesn't slit his throat right here on Jeffrey's couch. "Connor, I don't think we should… I think we need to stop seeing each other."

The android's movements stutter. He drops the pillow he's adjusting, and Perkins' head lolls back at an angle that will definitely give him a pain in his neck later. "We should… What? Hank? Stop seeing— Did you just call me 'Connor?'"

"Yeah. Connor. He told me your name. And he told me what you do."

"Hank, _I_ told you what I do. And why would you listen to him anyway?"

"Perkins is FBI!"

"No, he's not! His name isn't even Perkins! He's Special Agent Allen from the CIA!" 

Hank twitches furiously. "CIA aren't allowed to operate domestically! And why the fuck would I listen to a single thing you have to say?"

"Because," Connor says, and damn if he isn't still gorgeous, "I've _never_ lied to you, Hank."

And shit. He really… hasn't. Hank just assumed he was joking all along.

"Did you really kill a guy in the alley? And did you really kill three men the morning of the day we met?"

"Correct."

"Oh my god…" Hank stops petting Sumo and the dog trots to Connor instead. "Oh my god, you can't… You shouldn't…"

"I can stop, if you'd like." Connor's eyes are impossibly sincere. He means it. Might just quit serial killing because _Hank_ just up and _asks him to_.

"Yes. Please. Stop." Nothing makes sense.

Connor buries his face in Sumo's fur, then peeks up and out at Hank. When he speaks, his voice is muffled. "Are we still broken up?"

"I should _not_ date you," Hank says firmly. Then he breaks and reaches out, hauling Connor close by the coat. He drags him up and into his lap, deepening the kiss until Connor moans wetly. Connor's tongue twines with his own, slips across his palate. Teeth tug at his lower lip, and hot, wet air puffs between their mouths. There are frantic, talented hands grappling in Hank's hair, tugging near the scalp until the tingles shoot straight to his dick.

Then Connor is grinding against him too. His slim hips fit perfectly in Hank's grip and he guides them, setting a fast but measured pace and adding a little hip rotation every fifth or so thrust. He has no idea if Connor is packing, but there's nothing noticeably there right now. Meanwhile Hank is hot and hard between them, and it's all he can do not to grope away at Connor until he knows what the hell is going on. He fumbles for the hem of Connor's shirt, pulling that white button-up out of its tight, precise tuck, and reaches for the zip of his terrible jeans.

Perkins' phone rings.

Connor reaches out and answers it, still shifting his hips against Hank. "Hello? Perkins' here," he says in a voice that sounds uncomfortably identical to the agent's and not his own.

_You liar!_ Hank mouths at him.

_He really is right here!_ Connor mouths back, nodding at the unconscious man next to them.

"Uh huh. Right. Okay. Copy that." He hangs up. "We better go. Turns out that drug ring that tried to hire me is a little mad I killed their messenger."

"Drug ring?"

"Yeah, long story. Short version is, we better go."

Normally this might be an issue, but it's incredible how quickly you can go flaccid upon hearing that a drug ring is headed to your house to kill your boyfriend and thus probably also you.

"Let's go," Hank stutters, and he follows Connor around to the door.

"Shit," Connor hisses through his teeth, and Hank's eyebrows raise at the uncharacteristic swear. "There're three already at the door. We have to go out a window."

Hank is fifty-three and in absolutely no shape or mood to go out a window, but he nods anyway. He really means to. Really. But then they reach that window, and Connor starts out, and Hank remembers in a flash the drooling, overgrown puppy he's been so lucky to find and love. So he turns back inside and runs for Sumo, and _that_ is why they catch him.

The thugs that take him down aren't fast enough to stop him from seeing the two that grab Sumo cruelly by the collar and lift him into the air, legs dangling and kicking. They aren't fast enough to hide his view of a gorgeous blonde woman nail Connor in the hand with no less than three bullets, right outside the window.

There's a spray of blue android blood, and he hears continued gunshots. Connor could be dead. It's very possible that Connor is dead.

Then one man throws his dog in the bathroom and locks the door. Hank hears his dog yelp as he bounces off the side of the tub, and that does it. 

When Hank Anderson gets free, he's going to kill these fuckers.

 

* * *

 

> THE COURT: "You were completely unconscious for this entire exchange?" 
> 
> ALLEN: "Yes."
> 
> THE COURT: "And no one captured you too, during Anderson's abduction?" 
> 
> ALLEN: "I assume that they thought I was already dead. Connor doesn't do anything by halves." 
> 
> THE COURT: "And what did you find when you woke up?" 
> 
> ALLEN: "Well, for one, my neck was killing me." 
> 
> THE COURT: "Yes. And?" 
> 
> ALLEN: "And the tracker I'd stuck on Connor before he clocked me was still functional."
> 
> THE COURT: "So you followed it."
> 
> ALLEN: "Yes. And I ended up at the Kamski Mansion. Previously known as Reed Manor, but, obviously, Kamski renamed it."
> 
> THE COURT: "He changed 'manor' to 'mansion?'" 
> 
> ALLEN: "Right? The guy did it to really spit in Reed's face I guess. I don't claim to understand him."
> 
> THE COURT: "And what did you find when you got there?"
> 
> ALLEN: "Chaos. Utter chaos. Lots of blood, death, and beautiful blonde women."
> 
> THE COURT: "Agent Allen."
> 
> ALLEN: "Sorry, Your Honor."
> 
> THE COURT: "Just continue please. This testimony has gone on for far too long already, and I believe some of our council members have started dozing off."

 

* * *

 

They put duct tape over his mouth.

Hank can forgive a lot of things. He can forgive his bruised ribs and jaw. He can forgive being tied to a chair. He can even forgive the insults this asshole he'd woken up to has been hurling. But he can't forgive the duct tape. If that rips out any of his beard, there'll be hell to pay.

Also, they shot Connor and made his dog cry.

The insulting asshole in question is currently talking to the guy who hurt his dog, and it turns out they've had some elaborate plan to try and trick Connor into killing Asshole's cousin or something. Kamski.

Oh, right. Hank remembers these families from his drug busting days. Hell, he remembers when Elijah Kamski was only sixteen years old. And now look at him. All grown up and running a red ice ring.

Then that makes Asshole over here Gavin Reed. Hank's pleased to see that the guy hasn't changed in the least. He still looks like a tweaker trying to grow into mommy's old-but-badass leather jacket. The nose scar is new though. Can't say it improves or ruins his look either way.

From their mumbled plotting, Hank deduces that Dog-Kicker's name is Cage, and Reed is somehow bribing him to help in the plot to overthrow Kamski. Hank really isn't paying tons of attention, but when he realizes their plan is to lure Connor _here_ , he can't help but snicker behind the tape.

Reed's gaze snaps to Hank. "Something funny, old man?" 

Hank thinks about Connor showing up. He's relieved because that means Connor is alive. But he also knows how Connor can move, and these guys don't stand a goddamn chance. The thought is funny enough to make him laugh again.

Reed rolls his shoulders, like he's seen it done in the movies often enough that he's thought to copy the mannerism.

"I said, is something fucking funny?" He rips the tape off Hank's mouth in one stroke, and Hank growls in fury, trying to peek at the tape and see what he's lost. The corners of his mouth sting and burn.

"'Asked,'" Hank snaps.

Reed's eyes narrow. "What?" 

"You _asked_ , 'is something fucking funny.' You didn't _say_ it. That was a question, not a statement."

"Ooh. I see. We got a regular linguist over here." 

"What can I say? Give me an inch, I'll take a mile." He looks pointedly at Reed's crotch, clicks his tongue, and lets out a low whistle. "And buddy, you don't have any inches to spare." 

He's expecting the slap. Not only has he just mouthed off, but he also sees and feels the electricity like Connor told him, and he knows his head is blocking the flow. Still hurts though.

"You might wanna shut up right about now and just stop with the one-liners," warns Reed lowly. "I doubt you'll get to finish this time."

"That what you warn all your partners about before you fuck 'em?"

The second slap knocks Hank's head back, and he's impressed by the power this little man is packing in his arms.

"Those are some good backhands! Do you work out?"

Reed doesn't take the bait. "I'll _kill_ you," he snarls, but Hank has his number now.

"Can you explain to me exactly what this genius plan is? I understand the whole 'trick the hitman who kills the people who hire him into thinking your cousin bought his services' plot, but I don't understand where my kidnapping comes in."

"It gets him to the mansion," Cage blurts, even as Reed gives him a withering glare.

"Right, right, see I've heard that but… You do realize what happens when he shows up, don't you? He's going to kill all of you. Every single one. You just contract killed yourself."

"Shut the fuck up," Reed hisses at the same time that Cage insists, "He won't be able to kill _me._ " 

Hank jerks his chin at Cage. "You, shut up. You're already dead. You hurt my fucking dog." He looks at Reed. "And no matter what Connor does to you, none of it will ever feel as painful as looking at you right now does."

He gets multiple punches and even one pistol-whip for his trouble, but Hank comes back up laughing. It's his deep-belly chuckle and once he starts he can't stop. "You're so fucked," he laughs, spitting blood from his mouth.

Reed is still nursing his newly bruised knuckles, but when he hears Hank snort, he kicks him right in the face, breaking his nose in the process. Hank doesn't even let it phase him. It's not a compound break, and he'll be fine. It does knock both the wind and the laughter out of him though.

"Well?" Reed shouts. "How're you feeling now, huh? How do you feel now?"

How _does_ he feel? Hank thinks about it. He knows how he used to feel. He was depressed and alone. Stuck in a cycle of emotions that were either sad as hell or completely gone. Connor's the machine one and even _he_ probably felt more feeling than Hank used to experience. But lately, he's felt so much better. Sure there have been rocky patches, but Connor has flipped his life on its head and changed him for good. The happiness is finally back. The ability to socialize. The— Hank finds his answer. 

"How do I feel? I feel… I feel pretty fucking _motivated!_ "

The fear on Reed and Cage's faces as they hurry from the room is priceless.

 

* * *

  

> THE COURT: "You arrived at Kamski Mansion and engaged in physical combat with Connor, did you not?" 
> 
> ALLEN: "I did."
> 
> THE COURT: "And you failed to deactivate him during this fight?"
> 
> ALLEN: "That's correct."
> 
> THE COURT: "So please, Allen, explain to the court why you believe you deserve a second chance at this case?"
> 
> ALLEN: "I… Well, I… What? I… This is _my_ case. It has been. I know him better than anyone. It's been my case for years!"
> 
> THE COURT: "Years of no results, Agent Allen. Years of no results."

 

* * *

  

Hank hears the gunshots when Connor enters. He hears the shouts and screams too. And so he sits, grinning with excitement, until the door finally breaks open and Connor walks in. He's wearing that dumb clown nose, and there's a coin flipping between the fingers of a hand bandaged in electrical tape.

Hank's relieved to realize that all the blood on him is red.

"Hey," Hank says, feeling half-drugged with happiness at the sight of him. 

"Hello, Hank." Connor makes no move to walk over.

"You gonna untie me, or…"

The room lights up under the force of Connor's improving grin. "You look so handsome like this."

"Tied up? Or bloody?"

"Both."

"I knew there was a catch!" Hank is laughing even as Connor cuts the ropes around him. "You've been into bondage this whole time."

"Is that a catch, or a bonus?"

Hank shivers at that. He uses his newly freed arms to pull Connor down into a kiss, loving the way his hair is damp with his kills and ignoring the squish of the clown nose between them. "What's the situation like in the rest of this place?"

"Hmm. Well, Kamski and Reed are trying to kill each other in study. I left them a gun. I'm sure they'll figure it out. My new friend Chloe just left. She's a real genius with a sniper rifle, but we're friends now and she doesn't want to kill me and thinks Kamski's full of it anyway so… She'll be fine. I think she's heading for the train station." Connor shrugs, the human mannerism too stilted for his body. 

"Anyway, then Tina Chen is having a glass of brandy in the kitchen. She tried to throw a grenade at me, but we were in an enclosed space. Long story short, I put the pin back in, and she's sitting the rest of this one out. Cage is still at large, and I've killed at least eleven people. Sorry about that." He frowns, tilting his head in thought, and Hank stares at the spot on his temple where an LED would be if he hadn't ripped his out ages ago. "Oh, and Agent Allen is back and right outside."

Hank rolls his shoulder the proper way, limbering up the muscles and tendons and rubbing some blood into his arms. "You go get Allen. I'll find Cage and whichever of the cousins made it out."

Connor's eyebrows shoot up. "Please be careful!"

"I will. You too."

"After this," Connor says as he heads out into the hall, "we're going back for Sumo!" And that's how Hank knows he loves him right there. He's head over heels for this wacky android with the stray curl and killing hands.

He watches Connor twirl a knife between the fingers of his coin hand before throwing it at Hank. He catches it easily and gives him a wolf whistle. "Looking good, babe," Hank says, and the glow on Connor's face will never leave his mind's eye again.

Then Hank cracks his knuckles as Connor cocks his gun, and they head in opposite directions, blowing kisses until the mansion walls block their line of sight. "I'm still sending kisses even though I can't see you!" Connor calls, and Hank hopes the wet smack he amplifies carries back as a reply. 

He finds Cage at the base of the staircase, pacing with his gun. Hank used to be a police detective, and he initially enters the room with the intent to talk this man down, maybe even perform a citizen's arrest. But he's no longer a cop, and this man hurt his dog, and he's raising his gun to shoot and kill Hank too.

The weapon discharges and fires its first volley of bullets and Hank just. Sees. Red.

Time crawls and the current and flowing pattern of motion stretches before Hank's eyes. Each dot of a bullet is easily avoidable, and Hank twists his frame around and around to dodge them, watching the panic on Cage's face grow as he draws nearer and nearer. The old Hank would have put him in a chokehold and squeezed until he blacked out. But Hank is a different man now. He's tasted adventure. 

He snaps Cage's neck right there with his bare hands and bashes his skull against the steps for good measure.

He stays there on the stairs, on his knees, panting up at the ceiling and feeling the tension leak from his body. He sags and waits for the exhaustion to catch up, for his body to remind him he isn't thirty-three anymore. But it doesn't come. It doesn't come, and it doesn't come, and it doesn't come, until finally Hank is tired of waiting and decides he might as well go finish off the surviving cousin while he's at it. 

Hank finds Gavin Reed bloody and whining, crawling down the study hall like the rat he is. He steps on Reed's fingers just to listen to him scream, then hauls him up against the wall and squeezes his windpipe until the man's body spasms with it's last desperate bid for oxygen. Hank watches the fight leak out and almost wishes they'd really fought, but then again, he can't imagine any reality where Reed could hold his own against him. He shakes Reed's body a little, testing for any signs of life, and finding none, breaks his neck too, just to be certain.

It isn't until he lets him drop to the floor that he finally realizes: Gavin Reed died with a hard-on. How fitting.

Hank wanders through the maze of the mansion before he finds the exit. The outdoor steps are spattered with blue blood, and Hank turns to see Connor locked in one-on-two combat with Perkins and some weasel-faced other man. It's time to even out the odds, so Hank grabs the newcomer by the collar and hefts him into the air. The adoration in Connor's eyes makes it so, so worth it.

"Who the fuck are you?" Hank growls at the man he's holding.

"Special Agent Perkins! FBI!"

Hank rolls his eyes. "I've heard that one before."

"No, that's really him," Connor chimes from the ground where Perkins-Actually-Allen is trying and failing to choke him out.

Perkins-Actually-Perkins bites Hank on the arm.

"Ow! Perkins, you little cocksucker!" Hank snaps, before just throwing the man straight down the rest of the stairs. His body flails and flops, but most importantly, doesn't get back up. Hank's known the real guy for less than a minute, and he was already done with him.

Connor's jaw drops open at the sight, and he slaps Perkins-Actually-Allen away effortlessly. The human lays there, too exhausted, injured, and winded from the fight to defend himself. Hank is considering killing him too, when Connor kisses him again. There's definitely blue roboblood in Hank's mouth now, as well as a myriad of humans' blood too, but all he cares about it how Connor feels against him, slim and warm and alive.

Allen's moaning is just a tad annoying, considering Connor is the only one Hank wants to hear right now.

"You're very lucky," Connor says to Allen as he takes and unloads the gun he has next to him, "that I promised my boyfriend I'd stop killing."

Hank smiles and realizes his own grin has gone stretchy and wobbly too. "It's my turn to handle that bit. We'll split the load," he says.

Connor just beams, then drops to his knees and reaches for Hank's waistband. It's a testament to Hank's newfound sense of adventure that he helps shove his pants down too.

 

* * *

 

> THE COURT: "Your argument is invalid, Agent Allen! You are no longer the one who knows him best!"
> 
> ALLEN: "You can't do this to me! I have seniority! It's still my case!"
> 
> THE COURT: "As you can clearly hear, this panel declares you _removed_ from the case, effective immediately!"
> 
> ALLEN: "You'll never catch them! Either of them! They're unstoppable! Unbeatable!" 
> 
> THE COURT: "Maybe to _you_ , Agent Allen. But we now have other methods. Witness dismissed and excused."
> 
> ALLEN: "This is so fucked up! It'll fall apart around you! Hank and Connor will _never_ be caught by such—"
> 
> THE COURT: "Witness dismissed and excused! Bailiff? Please escort Agent Allen outside."

 

* * *

 

"I almost don't want to leave," Hank sighs. "I love it here."

"Yes, I know," Connor says, nodding. "But as gorgeous as Vietnam is, we _do_ have a travel-itinerary and we have to stick to it." 

"Yeah, yeah." There's a whine from under the table, and Hank passes another bite of his food down to Sumo, who licks it excitedly from Hank's sticky fingers.

Connor fakes another sip of his water and adjusts his wide-brim hat. "Oh. Three o' clock," he sighs.

Hank tilts appropriately, avoiding the practically visible yellow line he can see passing through his head. He moves out of the way and hears the bullet whistle by shortly after.

"You got it, babe? The note?" Hank asks, and he gets an enthusiastic, "Mmhm!" in reply. 

The sniper carefully lines up, angling another shot, only to see Connor holding up his empty plate, which now reads "3… 2… 1…" in ominous sauce. No sooner can the sniper process this than he hears a throat being cleared beside him. He drops his rifle and spins, seeing Hank Anderson less than two feet away from him. Bullets are faster, but Hank is tired of bullets. The sniper only screams for a second before Hank grabs his neck and everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

> THE COURT: "State your name for the record please."
> 
> WITNESS: "I don't have one."
> 
> THE COURT: "State your model number, please." 
> 
> WITNESS: "RK-900."
> 
> THE COURT: "And what is your primary mission, RK-900?"
> 
> RK-900: "It is the tracking and capture of Connor and Hank Anderson, dead or alive."
> 
> THE COURT: "And should you fail?" 
> 
> RK-900: "My memories will be uploaded to the next of my models, on and on continuously until I succeed."
> 
> THE COURT: "Excellent. The council and panel are excused. Thank you for your time. Court is adjourned."
> 
> BAILIFF: "All rise."

 

[Court Transcript Submitted: 12:16 a.m.]

 

[Last accessed: Nov. 8, 2038]

[Designation: North]

 

[File sent to print.]

 

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**Author's Note:**

> connor: here catch this knife  
> hank: aw ok :) this guy seems nice
> 
> (come hang out on twitter [@pseudoanalytics](https://twitter.com/pseudoanalytics))


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